Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Desperately the old Plainsman looked about the deck. Where indeed were the kender to whom he had given his trust?

“Sounds like the fighting’s stopped up there,” Kronn said. He fingered his chapak’s axe-blade, his eyes fixed on the ladder leading above decks.

“You don’t suppose things worked out all right, do you?” Catt asked. She crouched beside him, in the shadows cast by a large stack of crates. “That they killed all the pirates, and don’t need our help after all? That would be disappointing.”

Kronn listened, then shook his head. “Too quiet up there.”

Catt nodded. “So what’s our plan?”

“Plan?” said Kronn. “The plan is to rescue them.”

Catt made a face. “And how do you think we’re going to manage that?”

“I’m working on that part.”

The pirates were busy gathering the dead-both friend and foe-and throwing them overboard. A handful stood guard over their prisoners, cutlasses ready. The survivors of the attack-the Plainsfolk, Captain Ar-Tam, and eight sailors-sat at the foot of the mizzenmast, hands bound behind their backs.

“These waters are infested with sharks. Did you know that?” the pirate captain asked them. He nodded toward his men, just as they heaved the dead helmsman over the rail. “All those bodies. All that blood in the water. It’s bound to draw attention.”

Brightdawn looked up from Swiftraven, who lay unconscious beside her. The quarrel was still embedded in his shoulder, and blood continued to seep slowly from the wound. “What are you going to do with us?” she asked.

“Ah, lass,” the half-ogre replied, “what I do with the rest of these fools and what I do with you will be two quite different things.”

“I thought you were slavers,” Riverwind muttered.

“Oh, we’re slavers, all right,” the half-ogre said. “But I’m afraid our hold’s a bit full right now. You’re not the only ship we’ve waylaid since we last saw port, and we don’t have room for any more slaves aboard the Reaver. So that doesn’t leave us with much choice, does it?”

“Are you going to kill us?” Kael asked.

The half-ogre’s smile broadened, revealing even more rotten teeth, “Let’s just say we’re going fishing,” he rasped.

“What’s happening now?” Kronn demanded, standing on tiptoe at the bottom of the ladder.

“Shhh,” Catt hissed. “Keep your voice down.” She stood above him, near the ladder’s top, and peered out through the hatch. “Captain Ugly just said they were going to go fishing.” She glanced down at Kronn and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. The pirates are gathering them up and taking them over to where they’ve been dumping the bodies-except Brightdawn. They’re bringing her over to him.” She craned her neck, then winced. The pirates’ coarse, brutish laughter rang out loudly. “He just kissed her. I don’t think she liked it very much.”

“I imagine not,” Kronn agreed.

“Look out below,” Catt whispered. Kronn stepped aside, and she slid down the ladder, landing with a thump beside him. “Come on. They’re up at the bow. There’s portholes up there. We can get a better view.”

The two kender scrambled forward through the hold, dodging between barrels and crates, until they reached the crew’s sleeping quarters. They threaded their way among the bunks, coming to a halt at a pair of portholes. Catt tried to peer through one, standing on her toes and craning her neck, then stopped and shook her head. “Too high,” she said. “You’ll have to give me a boost.”

Kronn knelt down, and she climbed nimbly onto his shoulders. Grunting with the effort, he straightened back up again. “Branchala bite me, you’re heavy,” he groaned.

“Keep still,” Catt returned. She leaned forward, peering out through the porthole. “That’s better. I can see pretty good now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Shhh. It looks like they’re setting up some kind of block-and-tackle,” Catt noted. She shifted on Kronn’s shoulders, looking down toward the water, and caught her breath. “Reorx’s beard,” she swore.

“What?”

“Sharks. The dead bodies must have drawn them, like Captain Ugly said.”

She shifted again, looking up. “They’re looping a rope over the block-and-tackle, and-oh, no!”

Kronn glared up at her. “Oh, no-what?”

Catt didn’t answer. She simply stared out through the porthole, her eyes wide. Listening, Kronn could hear a voice, taut with panic, from the deck above. “No!” the voice called. “You bastards! You can’t do this!”

“Who’s that?” Kronn asked.

“One of the sailors,” Catt replied. “He’s on the end of the rope.”

“Stop!” cried the voice from above. “No!”

Suddenly, something fell past the porthole. There was a splash, then laughter from above and screaming from below. Catt looked down toward the water. “Great Fizban’s ghost,” she swore. “They’re dragging him through the water, like-like bait. Dipping him in and out. I think he’s-”

A cry of agony tore through the air. Startled, Catt stiffened, pushing away from the porthole. Kronn stumbled back, then the two kender fell in a heap.

“What happened?” Kronn asked, straightening himself up.

It was a moment before Catt found her voice. When she did, it was quiet and small. “Shark got him,” she replied, leaning against a bunk and breathing heavily.

“We’ve got to do something quick!”

“Like what?”

“Let me think,” Kronn answered. He tugged on his cheek braids, pondering, then snapped his fingers. “All the pirates are over here on Brinestrider?”

“Yup.”

“All right, then,” Kronn said. “If they’re going to board our ship, we’ll just board theirs.” He stood up and hurried to the starboard portholes. When he got there, he shrugged off his pouches, then turned to motion to Catt. “Come on. My turn for a boost.”

The sailor’s screaming carried on until the other prisoners were on the verge of tears. The rope threaded through the block-and-tackle went taut, and it took six pirates, hauling with all their might, to resist the pull on the other end. The rest of the raiders lined up along the gunwale, peering over the edge. They laughed and cheered as the sharks tore the sailor apart below.

“What do you want from us?” Riverwind demanded, a strain in his voice.

“Want?” the half-ogre asked. “I think you’re taking this the wrong way, old man. We just want to kill you. Is it wrong that we have fun doing it?”

Brightdawn began to sob.

Below, the screams changed to a guttural, choking sound, then quickly faded away. Suddenly the rope went slack; the six pirates hauling on it stumbled back, then reeled it in. It ended in a frayed stub, soaked red with blood.

“Good,” the half-ogre declared. “Next!”

The pirates picked a second victim-a boy of perhaps sixteen summers, whose beard was still patchy and soft-and dragged him to the block and tackle. He kicked as they tied the frayed end of the rope to the cord binding his hands. Laughing, the pirates shoved him overboard. After a few moments, the rope went taut again.

Swiftraven groaned softly. He had regained consciousness, though his wound had left him weak and faint. “My chief,” he moaned.

Riverwind glanced around, to see if any of the pirates had heard, then bent over the young warrior. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Swiftraven moaned. “I failed you-my Courting Quest. I didn’t… I didn’t protect Brightdawn.”

Riverwind shook his head. “You did all you could.”

Swiftraven shook his head bitterly. “But it wasn’t enough,” he said. Below, the young sailor began to scream.